


Escape Hatch

by Glossolalia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fighting Kink, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Romance, Shiro chews Juicy Fruit and wears aviators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You could go on the Kerberos Mission with me," Shiro tried again, knowing he was napping on a guillotine by mentioning the mission. "The only reason you're not my co-pilot is because of your interpersonal communication skills. Learn how to deal with me, and you'll graduate early on top of being a part of the greatest space exploration known to mankind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape Hatch

**i.**

The first time Shiro came to know of Keith's existence was under the pretense of:

"He spat on an officer again."

Having forgone his status as a student after being heralded a prodigy, Shiro regularly found himself in the Garrison's lounge with professors. There he drank his morning coffee and took mental note of the student gossip, but mostly, he utilized the space as a means to pass time before his single class.

"If he wasn't so damn talented, then I'd have booted him long ago."

"You mean the second year who made the explosives?" Shiro asked, not looking up from his white Styrofoam cup. He dipped a stirrer into it, even though he hadn't added anything yet.

"That one," Professor Rivera confirmed. He was a short man currently threatened by his receding hairline, but also, the pinnacle of the Garrison's fighter pilots. Rivera had been the first professor to recognize Shiro's piloting skills, letting him into his upper-level training by his second semester. "They finish the repairs on the labs next month. I'm telling you, Shiro. I think he struck a deal with the department in order to get new equipment off their insurance claim. In my opinion, they didn't care enough, even seemed pleased when the fire department showed up."

"Sounds like an honest mistake," Shiro tried. "We have small fires every semester."

"You'd think, but Keith Kogane is the department's best chemist."

"Keith Kogane," he repeated the name, letting it ring through him like an echo.

"Say that name to the wrong professor and you'll need to find a defibrillator. He's the best pilot we have who isn't you, but no one wants to fool with him at this point. If only he had your self-discipline. He'd be co-piloting the Kerberos Mission with you next winter."

Shiro blinked. "The committee would put a second year on the Kerberos Mission?"

Rivera shrugged and slurped from his mug, unaffected. "Matt Holt isn't much older, and he's an assisting scientist."

"I have to point out Dr. Holt is Matt's _father_."

"If Matt wasn't qualified, then we wouldn't let him on the most important space exploration in human history. The government knows what it's doing when it puts together its teams. Don't think we didn't look at plenty of other senior officers before recruiting you. You two just fit the bill."

Shiro knew better than to question Rivera's final word, but that didn't mean he was above doing personal research. If the Garrison's famed troublemaker was half as good of a pilot as his professor was implying, then he wanted to see him in action himself. Truth be told, Shiro was surprised he hadn't heard more about Keith before then. He figured his off-color nature had to be severe. Otherwise, he would've been the gossip mainstay.

Shiro added cream to his coffee and watched as it curled its fingers around the black brew.

"When does he go into the simulator?" he asked, returning to the circle of green and tangerine couches. Shiro swiftly lowered himself.

"We don't put him in the simulator anymore."

"So he's not even being trained at this point?"

Rivera laughed, his chuckle borderline bitter. "Oh no. He's already in the air."

 

**ii.**

"Look at him. What a show off."

They were the first words Shiro heard when he walked onto the runway, bomber jacket adorned and Aviators dropped onto his nose. A cluster of students stood postured outside the hangar designated for training fighter pilots, and each one's head was tilted back toward the sky. Some were wearing Aviators like Shiro's, some had turned their hands into visors, but most were too in awe to think twice about the seething sun on their corneas.

Shiro slid his sunglasses on top of his head, not yet making himself known. A jet gunned across the sky, sharply diving into a Split S and careening dangerously far from the training field. Shiro chomped his piece of Juicy Fruit in time with the beat of the very training regimen he recalled barreling through again and again. He didn't want to admit it, but even he hadn't been as on time during his second year.

"You're just mad they won't let you up there," countered another student. "Rivera's gonna be pissed if he tries that J-turn."

"Who's flying?" Shiro finally asked.

The entire group jolted at his voice, and they all locked stares over their shoulders. Like a flock of disrupted birds, they shifted and scattered as if they didn't know what to do with themselves. Girls and boys alike were too shy to give Shiro direct eye contact, but the boy who'd referred to the pilot as a 'show off' eventually spoke up. He was a tall brunet with clean blue eyes and a sharp chin. Shiro had seen him darting around the Garrison multiple times before.

"It's _Keith_."

He said the name as if it were like eating sandpaper. Shiro did his best not to grin. He'd heard his own name scattered like thumbtacks before. It was a part of peer interactions he'd long since grown desensitized to.

"He's good," Shiro said simply and then knocked his sunglasses back down. "But from what I've gathered, your whole class is talented."

The words caused a ripple effect of smiles.

" _Oh_ ," a short girl with black pigtails uttered, eyebrow raised. "There he goes."

The jet blared, dropping perilously low and then soaring upward. Shiro noted the thrust vectoring that all at once catapulted the aircraft into a sharp vertical angle, its nose reaching for space. Suddenly, Keith dropped the jet into a successful J-turn and circled the field.

From inside the hangar, Rivera shouted an obscenity.

Keith landed the aircraft directly after.

It came to a stop in the center of the runway, directly in line with the hangar. The hatch flung upward, and an orange, fully-helmeted figure unbuckled himself from his intricate restraints. Once freed, Keith tugged himself out of the seat and flung his legs over the side, agilely landing on booted feet. He reached for his helmet and jerked it off his head before comfortably shoving it beneath his armpit.

At the shake of his bangs, Shiro's stomach knotted.

Keith's cheeks were flushed. With creamy skin tinted rose due to gravity's impact on his blood pressure, Shiro cleared his throat at the dramatic contrast of Keith's skin and black hair. The dark locks were currently tied off his neck, but as he walked toward his classmates, Keith reached back and freed them with a yank. There was an undeniable surliness to his demeanor that rang through his posture, and while the temperament might've made him seem hard to fellow students, Shiro saw the practiced stare as nothing more than _young_.

 _He doesn't want to be impressed with himself_ , Shiro realized.

"Nice going!" yelled the brunet from before.

Rivera was making a beeline for Keith, and as soon as Shiro realized, he spat out his gum and jogged toward the man. He beat his professor to the punch and skid in front of Keith with a breathless smile. Keith quirked an eyebrow, gliding his gaze down the entirety of Shiro's person and only returning it to Shiro's face after he'd processed even the finest details of his black Nikes.

"Has anyone ever told you you're talented before?"

 _And meant it_ , he mentally added.

Keith opened his mouth to say something but only the slightest half-syllable escaped his throat. He stopped to clear his airway and combed back his sweat dampened bangs.

"You're Takashi Shirogane."

"Shiro," he corrected and reached out his hand for a shake.

Keith took his hand, trying his hardest not to smile through his speculation. "I'm…"

"Keith Kogane," Shiro answered for him. He realized what he'd done and mentally scolded himself for being transparent. "They were talking about you."

_Bad liar._

Keith glanced over Shiro's right shoulder. The soft slope between his bicep and neck framed the crowd that'd been watching him fly. The other shoulder framed their professor who was watching the two with an unexpectedly thoughtful expression. Rivera reached for his chin and rubbed it with his thumb and forefinger before retracting from the pair and his inclination to rub Keith's head against the pavement.

"Watch it, Kogane," he said, gruff and feigning being unimpressed. He turned on his heel and strode toward his other students, shoulders squared. "Alright, everyone. Suit up and head to the simulator. Lance, wipe that expression off your mug. It's not gonna help your rank."

"Where'd you learn to fly like that?" Shiro asked.

Keith's stare redirected to Shiro's face. He started to uncertainly walk toward the hangar where he'd left his bag. "I learned here, with everyone else."

"You have natural talent then." He strode alongside Keith, his fingers curling in as he grew aware of his clammy palms. "Do you stay in the dorms?"

There was a pause on Keith's end before he dragged out the single word. "Yeah?"

"I've never seen you around, and you're a second year. Some people commute. I assumed." Shiro realized he was talking fast, something entirely out of character. He reminded himself to focus. "Aside from the fires in the lab, people don't talk about you a lot."

"I like my room," Keith said, and for reasons Keith didn't quite understand, the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. "I hear about you all the time. You're the big man on campus or whatever."

He scraped his palm along the back of his neck. "I can't imagine what they say."

"Different things, but it all boils down to you being great."

Shiro's first thought following that backhanded compliment was how he wanted to vomit. The reaction was so foreign to him he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, but on some contradictory level, he believed it to be good. He wanted to puke, but he didn't want to leave.

Keith set his helmet down on a table inside the hangar, and without warning, unzipped the front of his suit. He tugged an arm out of a sleeve and paused to wipe the sheen from the hollow of his throat. Shiro's eyes darted toward the sweat-soaked undersuit clinging to his back, but then his manners reasserted themselves. His stare darted to the ground.

"Are you looking to enter the space program?" Shiro asked.

"I'm on the space track, but I'm not exactly what they'd call a _team player_. Rivera's tried to get me into team exercises, but they're not really my jive. Outside of the single seat simulator, I don't score high. I like aerial combat enough, anyway. Dogfighting, you know."

From his peripheral vision, he could see Keith tugging his shirt overhead, revealing a gleam of naked arms and shoulders. It was quickly covered by a red Garrison tank top. Keith threw back his elbows to pop his back and kicked off his boots. Still wearing the undersuit leggings, he stepped out of the orange suit the rest of the way and shoved his feet into red high tops.

"You said _enough_ ," Shiro pushed. "But do you _want_ to go into space?"

Keith gathered up his hair, ponytail holder in mouth. He looked at Shiro with a speculative stare and then yanked his hair back again. Keith exhaled, hard.

"They put you up to this, didn't they?"

Shiro raised his hands in defense. "No. Not at all. I'm here on my own accord. You have potential, and I think you could outfly me—out lead me—if someone worked with you."

Keith leaned over to grab his bag, sharply laughing to himself. " _Right_ , and that someone is supposed to be you?"

He hoisted the bag over his shoulder and strode toward the door, but Shiro jogged in front of him, suddenly turning and walking backward. Keith rolled his eyes but didn't remove himself from Shiro's directive attention.

"You don't have to believe me," Shiro assured. "But I do think you'd benefit from the challenge of the space program if you're making that g-force look like a cakewalk."

Keith narrowed his eyes and halted. He crossed his arms over his chest, and Shiro stopped once there was distance between them. They stared one another down in a gust of desert air. Keith licked a canine as he attempted to figure out a response.

"You could go on the Kerberos Mission with me," Shiro tried again, knowing he was napping on a guillotine by mentioning the mission. "The only reason you're not my co-pilot is because of your interpersonal communication skills. Learn how to deal with me, and you'll graduate early on top of being a part of the greatest space exploration known to mankind."

Keith's gaze opened wide.

"Just think about it," he added as his final word.

Shiro playfully saluted Keith and turned toward the Garrison. He was late for his one class, but he knew he wouldn't catch a second glance sliding into his seat after the A he'd made only two days beforehand.

 

**iii.**

Having never noticed Keith before their interaction, Shiro was suddenly hyper aware of how often he tended to see him in passing.

At first, it was just in the hallway, but eventually, it was while passing classrooms, as he walked toward a hangar. Mostly, though, it was the cafeteria.

There Keith would sit with his textbooks splayed in front of him, entirely alone while rapidly penciling out formulas. Usually, there was a cup of coffee resting near his arm, his eyes lowered in concentration that made his features sharp, severe. This concentration fluctuated, though. Whenever he suddenly understood the topic at hand, he'd soften his brow and pick up speed, writing hard and fast.

Shiro noticed he broke a lot of lead.

"Here," Shiro said, appearing in front of Keith with a mechanical pencil in hand.

Keith didn't realize he was being spoken to, still writing. Clearly, he wasn't accustomed to people approaching him, which was why Shiro dropped the new pencil onto the notebook, directly beneath his nose.

Keith jerked back and then looked up, mouth plunging into a frown at the sight of Shiro. This was not a reaction Shiro was used to provoking.

"I have a pencil," Keith said, voice souring with every letter.

"That you keep breaking."

"It's fine," he countered and tried to finish his thought, returning the pencil to paper with a hard exhale.

"More like a mess."

Keith's line of sight darted toward the scattered pencil shavings surrounding both his books and tray of high protein food. Shiro noted that the chicken breast had barely been picked at, and he attempted to negotiate Keith's physique with his bird-like eating habits. It explained the height and lankiness, even though he was mandated to be in peak physical shape due to elevated g-force exposure.

He snatched up the pencil and muttered a weak 'thanks.'

Pretending people hadn't stopped in their tracks to watch them, Shiro grabbed the back of the nearest chair and tugged it out, spinning it around and collapsing down in front of Keith. He settled his arms across the chair's back and leaned forward, reaching for an abandoned ketchup package and squishing it from side-to-side as a means to make movement between them.

"Have you thought about what I said?" he asked.

Keith continued to write. "Not really."

Shiro tried to hide his aggravation. His shoulders tensed, but he rolled them back and pressed on the ketchup package a little harder, faster.

 _Patience_ , he reminded himself. _Be patient._

"Why not?"

"I've been busy," Keith said, sounding oddly sincere considering his natural inclination for snappy responses. "Mid-semester homework. Rivera is on my ass about my logs being out of order. He threatened to kick me out, again."

"He wouldn't do that. He knows you're the best in your class."

The writing paused. "He's the one who told you about the Kerberos Mission."

Shiro didn't want to betray the trust the faculty had invested in him; the fact they saw him as an equal on good days. Instead of giving Keith an answer, he coyly shrugged with pursed lips and cleared his throat, hitting the ketchup even harder.

"Classified information."

"Sure," Keith said, and much to Shiro's surprise, smiled. There weren't any teeth, but it was there.

Shiro hit the ketchup package once more, and by the malignant nature of God, it unexpectedly spurted across the table. He watched in horror as a line of violent high fructose corn syrup strung itself across the homework Keith had been laboring over for an hour, his gory formulas suddenly a metaphor for anyone in chemistry.

Keith groaned and reached for a napkin. "Thanks, dude."

"Wait, Keith. Let me…"

Shiro darted forward to grab the same napkin to mop up the mess, but he tensed when their fingers intersected. Keith's thumb glided across the top of his right hand, and Shiro pretended he hadn't noticed the calloused warmth. Not giving up, he pushed his hand beneath Keith's and stole the napkin along with his notebook.

"If we can't save them, then I'll rewrite them for you and explain it to the professor myself."

"You don't have to," Keith muttered. "The hard part is figuring them out. I've done that."

Shiro didn't look up as he continued to clean what he could. He knew that ketchup covered assignments wouldn't pass with any of their professors. Somewhere between simulator assistance and his homework, he'd have to find time to write all of Keith's assignment on fresh paper.

"I can't believe you're going to lead the Kerberos Mission," Keith said, attempting to sound annoyed, but it was clearly more of a joke. "Can I have my homework back?"

Shiro wasn't done wiping. "One second."

"Hey," Keith said and leaned forward, sliding his hand over the front of the notebook and smacking it so that Shiro would look at him. "It's fine, man. I can clean it up or something when I go back to my room."

Shiro stopped, and he redirected his gaze. He was glad he hadn't leaned forward because he would've face planted into Keith's chin. Now that Keith had Shiro's attention, he dragged the book back toward his person and cleared his throat.

"You said I needed to work on teamwork," Keith said, his tone softer for reasons Shiro couldn't understand. "What—uh, what did you have in mind with that?"

Shiro leaned back, surprise written across his face. It eventually drifted to satisfaction.

 

**iv.**

Keith didn't like to spend time with people.

Whether or not that was a part of some nervous disposition, Shiro didn't know for sure. In the long run, _why_ didn't matter—or so he told himself that. What Shiro believed he needed to do was convince the faculty that Keith was stable and focused enough to work with three other people. Even if he wasn't perfect at communication, Shiro knew they'd take his recommendation into consideration, especially if they saw Keith perpetually at his side or working with him both academically and with fighter training.

Why he was so invested in Keith wasn't something Shiro could readily explain, but there was the inherent desire to see someone as talented as Keith do well.

They met inside the gym on a cloudy morning. It was the first rain Shiro had seen approaching the Garrison since he himself was a second year, and it left the already highly air conditioned gym feeling chilly and vacant. Most were sitting inside the lounge to watch the storm approach, but Shiro and Keith were standing on either side of the training ring, facing one another in tank tops and joggers.

"I read your stats," Shiro said, hands on his hips.

Keith arched an eyebrow. "Nervous?"

"Never," he said and prodded at the bandages around his knuckles. "But I'm impressed. What _aren't_ you good at? Flying, chemistry and now fighting."

"I hate literature." Keith reached to stretch his arms, tugging back a hand. Shiro noted his midriff, and the trail of dark hair that'd been concisely trimmed. "I don't do well with symbolism and nuances. I wouldn't survive the Sphinx."

"You like it right to the point."

"I guess," he said, but Shiro couldn't understand the hidden implication there. "I'm done talking. Fight me."

Shiro puffed out a breath, and he laughed to himself. "I'll try to play nice."

"Don't bother."

Keith popped his neck, and without warning, darted toward Shiro. With the dexterity of a racing deer, Keith dropped onto one bare foot and swung the other. Shiro's caught Keith's catapulting ankle, but the abdominal strength used sent reverberations of pain through his whole arm.

Adrenaline hitching, Shiro reached for Keith's other leg as a means to send him falling onto his back, but a hand clasp onto his own calf. Keith jerked upward and sent them both to the ground, Shiro landing on his spine and Keith on his side.

"What was _that_?" Shiro asked, breathing already ragged.

"We're not done," Keith warned and then rolled onto his stomach.

He attempted to get to his feet, but Shiro swung a leg beneath him. Keith barely avoided the trip, and he scrambled upright as Shiro managed to do the same with no hands. Not missing a beat, Keith charged at Shiro, determined. There was something feral and uncontained about the approach, Keith's strength at the height of 'all or nothing.' Shiro decided there was something personal involved.

"You're not thinking through your movements," Shiro snapped and dodged another kick, throwing himself to the side. "Concentrate on what you're doing!"

"Shut up!"

Keith went to roundhouse kick Shiro's face. Shiro ducked, but the way the kick tore through air was lethal. "Why're you here if you won't listen to me?"

"We are equals!"

"If we are equals, then why aren't you on the Kerberos Mission with me?"

"Because not everyone has it as easy as you do!"

Shiro paused at that and promptly took a fist to the face.

He stumbled backward, shocked that Keith had managed to land one on him. His nose dispersed the slightest dribble of blood, and he reached to examine the red smear on his palm, the way it filled the lines along his skin.

"You don't know me, Kogane," Shiro sputtered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"You're not the only one who knows how to hack the system," Keith shot back, words rolling like gravel. "You have no right to tell me what's wrong with me when you don't even know the beginning of what wrong feels like. Perfect family, perfect grades, perfect friends, perfect statistics, scores and health. You act like it's some civic duty trying to help me and make me right for this place."

Shiro sobered himself at that. "Keith."

"I am _better_ than you," Keith continued, the pain searing his voice. Shiro had never heard such a balanced display of rage and sadness before. "I just haven't had it _better_ than you."

What Keith lacked in strength, which wasn't a lot, he made up for in speed. Shiro found himself blocking with crossed wrists over and over, eyes flickering toward Keith's legs, which were where most of his strength had accumulated. Shiro knew that, if he could get one grab in, then he could take Keith down with a single move.

He needed to dismantle whatever grief Keith was dealing with, and fast.

Keith leapt to wrap his thighs around Shiro's neck, but instead of dodging, Shiro let the other go in for the hold. Shiro grasped onto Keith's thighs, then hooking his palms onto his hips, and dropped to his knees. Having not expected Shiro to disarm him other than attempt to toss him, he lost his concentration and abruptly slammed back, hitting his shoulders with an unpleasant smack.

Air broke from Keith's lungs, collapsing with a harsh, throaty grunt. Shiro pretended he hadn't noticed the breathy sound. With sweat dripping from his brow, he reached for the inside of Keith's leg and rolled him over onto his stomach. He caught the other's bicep, fingers swiftly dragging toward his elbow, which he jerked toward Keith's spine. He pressed the limb down and shoved his knee against the back of the boy's thigh, other hand snatching up Keith's free wrist and pinning it down beside his head before the underclassman could jerk free.

Keith rasped. "So much for _nice_."

"I'm very nice," Shiro promised and tugged Keith's arm back. Keith cried out, but his distressed noise broke into a feeble laugh. He pressed his forehead against the padded floor and tried to convulse his shoulders. Shiro knew he was hurting himself. "You're not getting out of this."

Keith didn't like the idea of having 'no options.'

He jerked again, gasping in pain as sweat dripped down his neck.

"I don't know what you've been through," Shiro said and held Keith down, bringing back the arm beside Keith's head so that he could hold both of his wrists with a single hand. Once he'd freed a set of fingers, Shiro reached and caught Keith's head, keeping him down as he steadied his breathing. "I don't know your losses or your gains, Keith, but I can tell you're not letting yourself have more than what you think you deserve. You need to start thinking bigger."

Keith stopped struggling and settled his cheek on the mat, eyes squeezed shut. Their breathing fell in time, and the synchronization became meditative.

"Let me use my _better_ to help you," Shiro insisted. "Has anyone ever helped you before?"

Keith didn't say anything.

Shiro's anger was peaking. "Keith, has anyone helped you before?"

" _No_ ," he said, word tearing free, nearly choking him in the process.

"Have you ever _let_ anyone help you before?"

" _No_." Keith jerked once more and then turned his face back toward the mat so Shiro couldn't see the hurt etched across his face.

"Well, get used to it. That's why I'm here."

**Author's Note:**

> To Second Part or not to Second Part? That is the question.


End file.
